


Undefiled

by lovethybooty



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Annie-Centric, District 4, Drabble, F/M, Introspection, Panem, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovethybooty/pseuds/lovethybooty
Summary: For all it's worth, she tries to hate them.ORAnnie Cresta refuses to give up on the good in the world.





	Undefiled

**Author's Note:**

> Just some late night thoughts on Annie and anger, hammered out in the notes of my phone while I avoided sleep and other responsibilities. Posting here because I don't hate it enough to not. 
> 
> <3

For all it's worth, she tries to hate them. She tries to hate them for what they did to her, to him, to everyone she's ever loved.  
  
But it's a lot easier said than done. He tells her sometimes, when they're sitting on her back porch, watching the waves roll into shore, that she can be angry if she wants. Says she's earned it, the way soldiers earn medals of bravery and honor. And that's the problem. A small part of her _does_ want to be angry.  
  
Something must be seriously wrong with her- what, with the way she shakes and shakes and never once blows her lid.  
  
( _How does it feel_ , he asks her, _to keep it all inside?_  
  
She doesn't have an answer for him. If she could describe it she would, but she can't so pursed lips stay sealed.  
  
That night is spent lying awake, trying to think of an answer to tell him in the morning. She greets him with a kiss and smile instead.)  
  
Maybe, she thinks, she really _has_ gone mad. Any normal person would look into the eyes of the devil and feel disgusted. Annie just feels sad.  
  
She's not like him or Johanna. When they talk about wanting them all to rot like the children they've slaughtered, wanting to watch them crumble to ash like the cities they've burned, she has to leave the room. Guilt is a devil's hound that nips at her ankles. And he, living like Atlas, the weight of the world and so much more resting upon those slumped shoulders. It's painful, it's no way to live. Not even the most evil creatures deserve such a cruel fate in her eyes. 

And she feels like a stranger in her own skin the day ire is finally a tide in her veins. Unwelcome in flesh and bone, a ghost just passing through.  
  
(Bodies are temples. _This_ is disrespect.)  
  
She tells him immediately. She tells him everything.

He offers her a plate, dusty white porcelain from the far back of the cabinet. Fingertips meet and he leads her outside even though it's getting late. She throws the dish down against the cement, watches as it shatters into a million tiny pieces he’ll no doubt sweep up later. Nothing feels better. Nothing feels worse.

Three more plates are ruined before she grows tired. He’s smiling, complacent, arms crossed over his chest, and she isn't sure why.

She gives him a pointed stare.

If he thinks she's finally snapped, he’s right. If he thinks she finally hates them, he’s wrong.

“The world is still good, you know,” she says. She turns on her heels and leaves it at that.


End file.
